Small Beginnings
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: She is a stranger in a strange land and the first kind faces she meets are a Bat, a butler, and a young man who smells of danger. Raven-centric.
1. Entry

**Author's Note: **One of the things that fascinates both myself and Em is the idea of Raven's entry into Earth and her subsequent meeting with the Justice League - whom she first approaches for help with her father (per the comics). And since I love character driven pieces, I finally decided to write out one version for the cartoon series.

And as it always does, it became a little bit MORE than what I originally intended.

_Dedicated to Emaniahilel,_

_The shared-brain, and cell phones_

_(without which none of this would be possible)_

**Small Beginnings**

Part 0 - Entry

By Kysra

She can fly, slip between dimensions with only the will and a word, yet when she leaves the Hall, she does so on her feet the way she came, dragging forward to the door, eyes downcast and head covered by a battered, threadbare scarf.

There are cruel words echoing through her head and into the recesses of her internal world, scattering thoughts of what to do now? and how could they know? and, poisoned with fear, what if she's . . . they are all right?

These accusations of evil and future destruction should not come so shockingly. Her eyes have been burned by the distinct spark of disdain, her skin engraved by the blood others wished to spill, and her ears deafened by the cries of her own people, wishing her demise. But she is shocked and hurt and knows at once that these unwanted emotions are as dangerous as they believe she is.

She bites at her bottom lip as she is faced with the bustling metropolis outside and the truth of her abandonment once more. The night is clouded and dark despite the strange torches lining the street and unbearably loud with its mechanized, too fast vehicles and the burbling of still milling crowds. She doesn't know where to look and turn, feels the barest pinprick of emotion behind her eyes and the sting of tears in her nose and tells herself the sensations are nothing more than a reaction of the alien fumes dancing around her from a nearby . . . waste recepticle.

On Azarath, she was small but present and acknowledged. Her world was large enough to still hold mystery but moderate enough to be well known and familiar, the geography limited and easily navigable. Here . . . here, she is made aware of her own seeming insignificance in this too big, confusing city with it's size and noise and gray roughed, manufactured edges.

She is lost within the folds of endless buildings and millions of people who ignore her presence, and as she paces the steps to the Hall, unwilling to take that next footfall to exploration of her new 'home', her heart hammers with unavoidable, denied desperation as she admits that she will need food and a place to rest.

"Raven."

She jumps then collapses in on herself in a cower. There is one of them, the silent black one with a grim mouth and blank eyes, the one who masquerades in the guise of a bat.

He approaches without hesitation despite her obvious agitation. Up until now, she had considered herself somewhat fortunate. Certainly, their refusal to help had scoured what little confidence she had built in expectation; but the small army of godly beings had not attacked her . . . even when they had agreed that she may be dangerous.

Now, he is coming for her and she has no will to fight. Perhaps they had thought to preserve the sanctity of their temple. Perhaps they had judged her too soft to dedicate their entire force. Whatever the reason, the Dark one is here, and she knows that she will put up no defense.

It is almost a relief.

Almost. His intention remains a mystery. Is he here to kill or merely banish her? She has seen enough of this world in this single day to understand justice is tantamount to mercy. Just the suggestion of the threat her presence poses would be enough to validate a swift execution.

. . . But she isn't ready to die just yet. Such a happenstance will mean nothing to the Terrible; and another seed may well work with Scath rather than against him as she has striven to. Dying would only delay his downfall and cast whatever scraps are left of her uncultivated soul into nothingness.

"Raven," he says her name again in that low voice, this time with a hint of irritation and a coat of unease. She feels the semi-cool hardness of a wall behind her and realizes that she had been retreating.

It does nothing for her pride, but as he lowers himself to her level, she cringes away, awaiting a blow or death or . . . something else equally unpleasant. She will not fight, will not dodge. Whatever punishment has been spared her throughout her life due to the fear of her people, she will take from this godly one with his dark cowl and sharp mouth and empty eyes. It is what she deserves even if she has done nothing thus far to earn it. The mere suggestion of her inaction through childhood is enough to recommend a sound reprimand.

"Raven." This time his voice is softer, somehow blotting out the distracting noises of this world's night life. His hand was on her arm, not quite holding her there, merely letting her know he was there. She had not expected such gentleness and her eyes widen slightly as he settles before her, lowering still to just under her level.

His mouth is still grim, his shoulders still tense with strength and pride, but his voice and touch are shining with kindness. It is a perplexing but welcome dichotomy. And she finds herself wishing she could smile.

Instead, she nods slightly, letting him know she hears and understands him. He nods back and distantly she wonders if those pointed appendages on his head are actually his ears. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Her eyes widen further when her own language meets her ears and she responds with a slightly garbled negative as that strained, prickly feeling once more rises to her face. She has known charity before, understood the signs of kindness for they had ever been etched into her teacher's face and actions; however, these small mercies had only been experienced with those she had known intimately. This man is a stranger in a strange land with an uncompromising aura and a spirit more suited to violence than grace.

She swallows hard against the lump that had taken residence in her throat since the disastrous meeting in the Hall and dares to meet his eyes. Up close, they are not the blank canvas she originally judged but the darkest hint of blue and shadowed with black. The eyes are just as uncompromising as the aura but tempered with compassion; and it suddenly comes to her in a flash of insight that once - maybe not so long ago - he was a lost child as well.

"What, exactly, do you think you're doing, Batman?"

Raven jumps again though for a different reason than startlement this time. This is the voice who claims her evil. This is the voice that taunts her now in addition to her father's. She wants to fly away, for her feet to leave the ground and settle somewhere safe. The strong hand still gripping her wrist, however, stops her before she can even take flight.

The Batman is still crouched before her like some valiant guardian swearing loyalty, and his eyes bore into hers as she watches from mere inches above trying to understand whatever silent communication he had been trying to broadcast.

He stands and faces the one called Zatana, presenting his back to Raven and shielding her from the interloper's prying eyes . . . a solid wall of flowing black cape.

"Leave it alone, Zantana." His voice is markedly different from the measured, low tones he had used with her. He sounds now as if he is facing an uncontested enemy, cold and distant and menacing. The sound of such a voice forces a shiver down her spine at the alienness of it.

"She's dangerous and you're a fool if you're allowing yourself to think otherwise. Mercy has no place when dealing with demons."

Raven flinches and whimpers quietly. Never has anyone so baldly stated their thoughts on her heritage. Never has she felt so threatened verbally. She clenches her fists and breathes into the rising desperation and anger, praying silently the three words ingrained in what's left of her rather questionable soul.

"I think it's clear that we disagree." The Batman's hand reaches back wordlessly, and Raven, still in the throes of an impromptu meditation ritual, equally silent, reaches out for that hand.

Her fingers are tiny and near insubstantial to his; however, she finds a minute measure of comfort in the contact, his strength burgeoning her flagging courage as she steps a bit closer to the wall of his body, leaving the weight of the Hall behind.

"That child has made you soft." The woman is coming forward, Raven hears the glide and click of her strange, high shoes against the cement; and she wonders distantly why the "child" feels like a boy.

"Time has made you cruel. We do not attack children, no matter what they might grow up to be." The gritty lilt to his voice sinks low and gutteral to growling, and Raven draws closer, tightens her little hand in his gloved one. Something inside that usually remains dark and quiet, stirs when he returns the gesture. There has only ever been one person to defend her, and even she had never done so with such conviction; and suddenly, there is a spark of warmth in her little bird's chest, something wet cooling her cheeks.

"Very well," Zantana does not sound happy, "have it your way; but don't say I didn't warn you when you find yourself having to put her down."

His grip on her hand turns unpleasantly tense. "She's not a dog, Zantana." She must have made a sound then for his hand suddenly softens around hers and he pulls her just a little closer, his aura threading with bright yellows for caution and reds for violent intent, as if he is readying for both attack and flight. "And I shouldn't have to warn you, but if I see you near this girl at any point in the near or distant future, I will not hesitate."

He doesn't say what he will not hesitate to do, but Raven is a clever girl and she fills in that long blank, biting her lower lip till she tastes blood.

She has only ever wanted peace, yet everywhere she goes erupts in discord.

Her free hand reaches up to bunch in the folds of the cape, her forehead contacting the hard surface of his back. She has a rudimentary grasp of the language here, and her voice cracks in a shaky, "I am sorry." Please do not fight like this.

But the tension stretches out and he doesn't back down. Finally, the stand-off is over . . . or perhaps postponed as Zatana sighs heavily then turns to go back into the building. "You're making a mistake, Batman."

"I know I'm not."

"And what is it about her that makes you so certain."

Raven looks up at him to find him looking down upon her with an expression akin to affection. "She asked for help."

"I suppose that means you're going to help her regardless of the decision made by the League."

"I'm an independent agent as well as a League member, Zatana."

Zatana snorts before the Hall swallows her into it's cavernous bulk; and Raven finds herself alone with the Batman once more. He still entertains that look, and she is still perplexed by it; but their hands never disconnect and soon enough she is being pulled down the front stairs to the dark cement path that wraps about the place to wind out towards the city canopy.

"I . . . am sorry." She tries again, the sound of the words zinging with a new strength. Her intention had been to gather allies. She had never entertained her coming would incur division.

He didn't look back, but addressed her in that soft, gentle yet unyielding tone she was growing accustomed to. "There is nothing for you to be sorry for."

Whatever thought or response rising to her lips at that moment, is not given an opportunity for communication as a roaring sound, like that of the mountain cats or brown bears of her birthplace, rushed toward them, making her ears ache and body tremble with the small trickle of fear she allowed herself to feel.

"Don't be afraid. It's just a means of transportation."

It appeared from around the corner and raced the short distance to halt before them. The thing was black, sleek, shiny, and imposing . . . very much like it's master; and despite the obvious mechanized look and sound of it, Raven could not help visualizing it's smooth lines and comparing them to the predatory agility of a jungle cat.

She could feel the tickling tendrils of amusement from the man at her side as he tugged her forward and around to the far side of the vehicle. The door(?) hissed open, rising up like the wing of a bird climbing its way into the sky. The action exposed the interior of the thing: seat-like contraptions, foot cubbies, solid lights nobs and levers, and a strange circular ornament fixed to a shelf-like structure.

Confused and not a little alarmed that he seems to be waiting for her to enter the contraption, she aims wide eyes up to him, an eyebrow cocked questioningly.

"It's a car, Raven . . . like a carriage or chariot." The latter half of the explanation is spoken in her dialect; and understanding blossoms momentarily before she must tell him the truth.

"It stinks."

The hint of amusement wraps her up in warm ribbons of gold and lavendar; but he says nothing, just lets go her hand and wraps her on the back toward the "car."

Tentatively, she climbs in, looking this way and that, taking in the strange oiled smell and the cool, sticky material of the plush-yet-stiff seat, feeling the ominous pull of weapons somewhere in the vehicle.

She is startled and slightly uncomfortable when the Batman reaches to her nearest side and then the other, producing some sort of restraining device to cross from shoulder to hip, clicking into place loudly in the already loud night.

"You wish me to remain chained to the 'car'?"

This time he does chuckle, and though she has heard many laughs in her short lifetime, his is especially strange - grudging and understated as if he does not laugh often and isn't quite sure if he's doing it right. "Cars - particularly this one - can move very fast. The seatbelt is to keep you safe in case of an abrupt stop."

She glanced down and fingered the edge of the "seatbelt" securing her lap to the seat. "I see." Watching as he closed the door(?) . . . hatch(?) . . . she wasn't sure what to call such a thing, she waits until he is seated next to her to ask where he is taking her.

"To a friend. He has a . . . son, slightly older than you are."

"Oh . . . " Her fingers twiddle with the strap pressing against her chest, worrying that this new person will reject her as everyone else has thus far. She admits to herself that she would prefer to stay with the Batman - who hides so conspicuously - rather than a more pronounced stranger; but she knows this man's business is danger, violence, and death. She isn't built for that type of occupation. "Thank you."

That flat, unsure chuckle sounds again as one hand becomes a heavy weight atop her head. "No need to thank me."

The scarf covering her hair fell as it was compromised by the patting, and as she scrambled to put it right again, she thought that perhaps gratitude was cheap here in this world where the unimportant was so abundant and the essential so neglected that it could be so haplessly rejected.

"Will . . . he like me, do you think?" What she meant to say was Will your friend really accept me? Just like that?

Granting her a sidelong glance, the Batman continued manipulating the strange circular ornament, his mouth collapsing into that deep, grim line once again, his aura spelling out the seriousness of his response. "I believe he already does."

_Coming Soon . . . Part - 1, The Gift_


	2. The Gift

**Author's Notes****: **I have been extremely gratified by the positive reviews for this fic, so thank you to all the readers! I've actually had this part written for MONTHS but my life is – no lie – crazy and getting crazier so I am FINALLY posting.

Kudos to anyone who can find the _Amelia Bedilia _nod.

And no, you are not seeing things, Raven knows Bruce and Batman are one and the same immediately. He doesn't have to tell her, she just sees it in him.

BTW, per one reviewer, Raven's age in this fic is roughly 11-12 so she is quite a bit younger than she is in the animated series (I put her at about 15-16 there).

_Dedicated to Emaniahilel,_

_The shared-brain, and cell phones_

_(without which none of this would be possible)._

**Small Beginnings**

**Part I: The Gift**

By Kysra

The sun appears and disappears along the horizon as it is wont to do, and Raven reflects that it is just as well she has something familiar to look forward to in the midst of the increasing strangeness.

She is full of questions and shy of asking them in the first days of her acquaintance with the Batman, his other - Bruce Wayne, and the "butler" whom she takes to calling "Uncle Alfred" for no other reason than that is what he feels like. Bruce seems to be amused at the explanation when it is solicited (particularly after she admits she has never known such a relation before), but she has found that many things about her inexplicably amuse him.

For instance, there was the first night when Uncle Alfred had approached her with the statement, "I have drawn you a bath, Miss Raven." She had replied, confused, that while she was certainly appreciative, she was quite stumped as to how a rendering would be useful to her. Uncle Alfred had then quirked a brow while the Batman broke out into a full belly laugh, the strands of their combined auras undulated about, tickling her skin and warming her cold hands.

The two men seemed equally bemused regarding the way she sleeps at the foot of the "bed" on the floor and sprawled out, her length running from east to west in a crooked diagonal tangent to the door; the manner in which she moves into a room, a whisper of bare feet sliding across the "carpet", silent as she awaits acknowledgement rather than announcing - however quietly - that she is there; and the way she takes her food with her hands only after the men of the house have left the "dining room".

And she is chagrined to perceive Uncle Alfred's own brand of delight at her supposed ignorance as well, and cannot fathom how, in her world of origin, she was loathed and respected to the point of near-total isolation; but here, in this too-big house with its maze of rooms and hallways and unnecessary opulence, she has found two taciturn men who see in her something at once odd and endearing. It is not a role that suits her purpose, and she chafes with the foreign sensation of their collective impressions.

"Young master Richard will be here in a few days." Uncle Alfred sets a plate of greasy brown strips and a pile of what looks like yellow mush with a side of halved grapefruit. She stares at the food and remembers her internal vow to blissful ignorance. Though she has never eaten such fare before coming here, she understands that these people eat the flesh of animals and does not wish to offend them unnecessarily with her own dietary customs.

"Is he like Bruce?" Her "English" is stilted and slow; but Uncle Alfred is patient and knows enough "Hebrew" - her language as it is known here - that they may communicate with little difficulty (1).

Uncle Alfred sits to watch her watching the food on her plate. He does not understand her aversion to allowing others to see her taking sustenance, she can tell. "How do you mean?"

She searches for the words to explain the twisted aura of the Batman, how Bruce is more honest when masked than he is when bare. She has never met anyone so complex before, and it irks her that - as an empathic being - she is unable to untangle the proverbial coil of his essence.

"He is . . . complicated."

The clink and tumble of unused, yet somehow unclean, tableware precedes Uncle Alfred to a moderate-sized inset metal basin, placed prominently before a window which - Raven knows - reveals a breathtaking view of the gardens below. "Truer words have never been spoken, Miss Raven."

She suppresses a smile - an occurrence she finds becoming more frequent as of late. If for that reason alone, she knows she cannot allow herself to stay long; and as she thinks it - not for the first time - her mouth slackens into a neutral line again as the thought of leaving fills the space behind her eyes with something dark and heavy, like sleep, but wakeful and shuddering with nightmares.

Unable to do anything else without seeming uncouth, she takes up a strip of lukewarm meat - 'baykun'? - to nibble lightly and pokes at the yellow-ish goop. The small exploration of the morning meal takes her mind from the near unknown and the unwanted promise of repeated loneliness.

She kicks her feet half-heartedly beneath the table - her feet don't reach the floor anyway, abandoning the 'baykun' to her plate and the yellow - what had Bruce called it? - _scrambled eggs (_Raven remembers thinking that such a thing was a cruel thing to do to bird embryo) as she sighs and listens to the muted sounds of water falling from the spout and the scrape of a knife's edge against Bruce's breakfast plate.

And though the sounds, smells, company, and setting were new, it strikes her as oddly familiar as well. So much so that she imagines Azar's voice humming softly in tandem with the morning birdsong audible through the silent room.

"If I may be so bold, you seem troubled." Her meal plate slides across the table to be lifted by Uncle Alfred's able hand while his other settles a smaller plate - _saucer_, she thinks - is placed before her, a lovely porcelain cup trimmed in green the size of her fist perched in it. Instantly mesmerized, she stares at the combination of cup and saucer, thinking it looks like a perfect, predominantly white lily pad floating atop the glassy surface of some faraway stream.

She becomes even more focused when the pale liquid contents of the cup steam up to tickle her nose with a perplexing scent that is heavy and hollow and bitter and sweet and pure and relaxing all at once. Her eyes meet Uncle Alfred's for a heartbeat before she allows her normally neutral mask to dip into a frown. "Why would you say that?"

When they first met, she had assumed his way was much the same as hers, his face frozen into an expression equal parts subdued amusement and indifference-bordering-on-arrogance; however, she now knows that assessment to be flawed. His aura speaks of a subtle but complete kindness and care, a gentle warmth that flushes her cheeks and forces her fingers to relax.

She wonders often but briefly how the two men of the house came to be so close despite the obvious subterfuge. To Bruce, Alfred is security and comfort - a more sturdy sanctuary than the manor walls. To Alfred, Bruce is a son. Yet, for all of that, secrets mangle and tangle about them, into the fabric and mortar without perceivable end.

Azar had once said that secrets are poison, decaying the soul until nothing but carrion is left for the demon to consume; but Raven feels no decay, no death or evil. The men merely inspire a twisted sort of confusion like a toy she was once given by the Temple priests - a stick with only one end (2).

Uncle Alfred does not sit or gesture, merely sniffs delicately and pushes the saucer with its cup and cooling drink a little closer to her with the tip of a rather elegant index finger. "You have not relaxed since Master Bruce arrived with you in tow. I fear your spine will break if your posture were any more rigid."

Her gaze drops down to her hands, palms grasping at the loose folds of her robes. "There is . . . much I must consider before -" _moving on_. The words are sour on her tongue and her lips pucker against them. "There is much I must consider."

She cannot see him from her current vantage point, but the shining threads of his aura that reach to embrace her as she sits, still and tense, tell her that he's smiling. "Well, then, where I come from, there is a very popular saying that I have yet to see proven untrue: _There are few problems that cannot be solved over a cup of tea._"

"Tea?" Blinking up at him, Raven feels the muscles between her shoulders loosen under the pressure of his calming essence. She thinks that perhaps she is beginning to understand Bruce's attachment to the older man.

Chuckling slightly under his breath, the first time Raven has ever heard such a sound from him - it is a wheezy, chafing thing, Uncle Alfred lowers himself to sit next to her at the dining table (a revolutionary idea to one such as she who had only eaten with a bowl balanced atop her knees) before sliding her saucer and cup toward him. His other hand is suddenly busy with a tray she had not noticed before as he asks her in a clipped, efficient sort of way whether she likes honey or sugar, milk or lemon.

She tells him, equally succinctly, that she isn't certain as she has never had tea; and when he looks over to her with an expression akin to horror, she finds that she is not as immune to it as she should be. Her laugh is much like his - a chafing thing, fighting to be released and hoarse due to disuse.

Later, in reflection, she will note that her upbringing was orchestrated by Azar and the Temple priests, and always they safeguarded their emotions behind a standard non-expression as an example to her. She had rarely experienced the plethora of expressions that the people of this world allowed so often and so varied; and though Alfred and Bruce are both adepts at hiding in the same manner as her teachers, she finds their occasional release gives her an internal tickle.

In the face of her ignorance, Uncle Alfred steps away to the cupboards and acquires four more cups and four more saucers. He reunites them with their matching-but-full brethren and fills them as well from an equally lovely - though strangely shaped - gourd with a spout like a swan's extended neck.

He aims a small grin at her - an echo of Bruce's jauntily crooked one - and answers her unspoken question, "The better to experiment, my dear."

Gingerly, she takes up the original cup and watches the liquid dance in time with the slight shaking of her hands. "But this will take time."

"One should never rush when drinking tea, Miss Raven. One should savor every drop as it unravels whatever difficulty currently plagues one's mind."

She takes his words to heart as quickly and deeply as she had always taken Azar's bits of wisdom. They settle into her ears, her mind, her skin and blood and seethe into the remnants of her soul that still belong to her and her alone.

Her first sip reminds her of cresting Nettle's hill for the first time with the wind pulling at the ends of her hair and the dancing hem of her robes billowing about her ankles, the feel of the cool grass blades bowing below her feet and the singular sight of the Blue River - a glimmering ribbon of azure - curving about the nearby mountain range as the reeds sang a sweet discordant song.

In a word: _bliss._

She licks her lips and asks, "Is it supposed to feel . . . " Her knowledge of the language is too spare to truly communicate the ball of surging warmth enveloping her chest. She suddenly understands what is meant by the word 'homesick'.

Uncle Alfred touches the back of her hand with the tips of his fingers, briefly, though the strands of his aura tighten just a bit about her like a cocoon - protective and nurturing. "Yes, it's supposed to feel exactly like that."

_Coming Soon . . . Part 2 – The Lesson_

NOTES:

While I know the idea that the people of Azarath were of Hebrew descent is a very flimsy comic-based theory, I find myself compelled to perpetuate it in my fics. I think it might be due to the fact that I'm a historian and I like to find excuses to link Azarath and Azar with the "real" world.

The toy Raven is referring to was borrowed from David Eddings' series _The Belgariad _and _The Mallorean_. I was used to keep a very young Polgara occupied.


End file.
